


Inspiration

by ivyness



Series: AU Yeah August 2018 [28]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angels, M/M, au yeah august
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 10:53:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16386518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyness/pseuds/ivyness
Summary: Grantaire put his phone down on his desk and ran his hands through his hair in a panic. “Right. Okay. Time traveling angelic revolutionary. I’m definitely going crazy.”





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know French. I have no idea what happens in Les Mis. All I know is what I found on google and read in fanfic. (Yes this is posted in October for AU August but better late than never)

“Qu'est-il arrivé? Où suis-je? Qu'as-tu fait à mes amis?”

The words fell gracefully from the angel’s tongue, a beautiful lilting french that Grantaire had no hope of deciphering, as the angel’s melodic voice grew louder in agitation. Grantaire stared helplessly at long, elegant hands that slashed through the air like swords, “Dude, I don’t speak gibberish.”

A deep furrow formed between two golden eyebrows and the angel’s delicate mouth twisted into a snarl. Grantaire contemplated duct taping his mouth shut.

“Putain”

That, Grantaire understood, even if he couldn’t understand the words he knew the sentiment. And this was a headway, this was progress and Grantaire ignored the twisting, unhappy feeling that he had somehow failed. Grantaire nodded in agreement, trying to communicate his understanding and empathy with this crazy situation they’d found themselves in, “Yes, agreed, this is fucked up. Putain”

It was the absolute worst thing to say. The angel’s face shuttered close, the only thing left were shadows of hatred, burning like cold embers in mercyless eyes. His wings sent up a whirlwind of paper and pencils as he turned on his heel and marched out the door. Grantaire went to his desk and searched for his duct tape.

*****

As was quickly becoming the norm, Grantaire woke with a kink in his neck from falling asleep at his desk. Ink stained his fingers, pencil smudged his face and paint streaked his hair. Grantaire dragged himself up from the sketches that littered his desk to stare bemusedly at the handful of paintings scattered around his studio filling the place with wings and halos and gorgeous, angry eyes. 

Eyes that stared back at him, real eyes, tired and sad, but no less angry. Grantaire yelped and flailed gracelessly as he fell to the floor with a bang. 

The angel rolled his eyes and didn’t move to help him up, lingering in the doorway. 

It had been a long week since the angel had stormed out. Grantaire had barely slept, drifting between frenzied inspiration and desperate anxiety; wondering if angels needed to eat or sleep, and worrying about people’s tendency to turn fear into anger. He kept seeing fiery mobs and hurled stones when he closed his eyes.

In slow, heavily-accented English, the angel asked, “Why did you bring me here?”

The words startled Grantaire from his dark musings and he stared at the glowing angel in helpless confusion.

Next to the real thing, Grantaire’s paintings seemed dull and lifeless and his fingers itched to hide them all away. He was jittery from too much coffee, and too little sleep, and he badly needed a drink. He had plenty of excuses. None of them explained the first words out of his mouth, to the muse who had lifted his drought, and flooded his mind with inspiration and his studio with art and beauty. 

The truth was that Grantaire was an asshole. And that’s why he said, “How the hell should I know? Oh shit, you probably don’t want me saying the h-word. Is that a thing. Oh fuck, I said shit. I mean - God dammit no wait, sorry, gosh darn.” 

Grantaire took a huge breathe and ran his hands tiredly through his hair, taking a peak at the angel who was looking distinctly unimpressed. “Sorry, man, or rather, ‘Oh great celestial being,’” Grantaire said, making it sound more like a question than anything else.

“Enjolras,” the angel said with a sarcastic eye roll. Grantaire would've thought that was blasphemous but he’d already cursed up a storm so he wasn’t one to judge.

“God bless you,” Grantaire said. The angel glared and his wings twitched in agitation, threatening to knock down the nearest painting. He hurriedly continued, “Sorry, I mean what?”

The angel stared at him and Grantaire fidgeted under the weight of his gaze. “My name. It’s Enjolras.”

“Sure, uh. I’m Grantaire. Welcome back to my humble abode? How’s your week been?” he said and grabbed the stacks of notepads and art supplies from the room’s second chair and tossed them on the floor, gesturing, “Chair? Wait, do angels sit?”

Enjolras ignored his babbling and stepped gingerly into the room, wings tucked in tight to his body, as he sat in the offered chair. 

Grantaire shifted awkwardly on his feet, the silence looming large and heavy. He drifted back to his desk and latched onto a pencil. He plopped down into his chair, propping a notepad up on his lap and traced idle lines across the blank page. “So,” he said, staring pointedly down at his notepad, “how are you finding earth?”

Enjolras ignored the question and Grantaire shifted uncomfortably. The silence continued, stifling, until Grantaire blinked and found three more pages full of sketches of wings and angry eyes. He glanced up to find Enjolras still staring and he felt heat crawl uncomfortably up the back of his neck.

“I am disappointed in you,” Enjolras said and Grantaire felt like a bucket of ice had been shoved down his throat, a dizzying, nauseous feeling swirling up. “So much has changed and yet nothing is better.” Enjolras shook his head in disappointment and Grantaire felt a weird sense of disconnect as he watched the bounce of his golden curls. “Either send me back or bring me my friends. I have work to do.”

Grantaire felt an ugly smile creep in on the edges of his lips. “So sorry to disappoint,” he said, sarcasm dripping like venom. 

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are or what fluffy cloud you fell from but you don’t know shit,” Grantaire said, pointing his accusing pencil at Enjolras’s glowing form, “So you can get off your entitled fucking high horse or get out.” And sometime in the middle of all this, Grantaire had stood up, body as rigid as the pencil he held in his shaking fist.

Grantaire watched, feeling disconnected from the present, as Enjolras’s eyes flashed in golden fury. He slowly stood, wings towering over Grantaire. His halo grew blindingly bright and his wings puffed up to fill the entire room, huge and angry and righteous. ‘Like an angry toucan,’ Grantaire thought dizzily, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

And for a moment, Grantaire was sure he was about to be smited from existence. But Enjolras just looked at him, a creature larger than life, and he closed his golden eyes, breathed out a heavy sigh and suddenly everything was gone. 

The anger, the impending sense of doom, the halo and the wings: gone. Enjolras was just another man, standing in Grantaire’s studio, and he noticed for the first time that Enjolras was barefoot. Ugly, red blisters lined his feet; feet that were firmly planted on the ground. And fuck, Grantaire felt like such an asshole.

Without the wings and the halo and the righteousness, Enjolras looked like just another man, lonely, and hurting, and very far from home.

Grantaire shakily sat back down, deflated. He ran his hand through his hair, rubbing harshly at his stinging eyes and ringing ears. “Sorry. I can be kind of an asshole.”

The ghost of a smile haunted the edges of Enjolras’s lips as he gingerly sat back down. “Yes. I noticed,” he said, and the surprising warmth in his golden eyes took all the sting out of it. “But I am also partly to blame. It is no excuse but I have been,” his lips pursed in distaste, “distressed.”

Grantaire barked a loud laugh, harsh and bright and filled with relief. The sound provoked a real smile from Enjolras, and it was small and tremulous but so very real. Grantaire felt his cheeks blush and his fingers itched to put pencil to paper.

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t summon you here or whatever,” Grantaire said, trying not to babble nervously, “I didn’t draw any pentagrams or say any prayers. I’ve just been, you know,” he said and waved his hands at the room, indicating the chaos of art.

“Yes, I’m beginning to see that,” Enjolras said as he eased a paintbrush out from under his seat. 

Grantaire wondered if he should feel insulted at that. He watched as Enjolras’s mouth tipped up in a knowing smile and his fingers clutched convulsively around his pencil. “So if I didn’t do anything, maybe it was something you did? What was the last thing you were up to?”

“Leading a revolution.”

Grantaire gaped. “Huh.”

Enjolras shrugged.

“Which one?”

And now it was Enjolras’s turn to look confused. “What do you mean which one?”

“Well, uh, you know. What’s the, uh, focus?” At Enjolras’s confused look, Grantaire continued, “Like are you working on women’s rights? LGBTQ issues? Racial inequality? Class differences? All of the above?” Grantaire finished, a little desperately at Enjolras’s continued silence.

“We fight for the good of all French citizens. For those who go hungry and hide in dirty, unseen places. We fight for everyone who have been told they cannot fight back.” Enjolras said, all matter-of-fact with eyes a blazing gold. Grantaire could easily imagine the shadowy impression of a shining halo.

“France. Gotcha. Yeah. I heard the President’s been kind of a dick.” Grantaire said, trying not to seem like an ignorant buffoon.

At that, Enjolras seemed even more confused, “President? France has a King. Louis-Philippe.”

Grantaire might have been living under a rock but he still got internet and he knew for certain that France hadn’t had a monarchy in a very long time. “Enjolras,” Grantaire tried, the strange name rolling off his tongue and falling to the floor with a splatter, “What year do you think this is?”

Enjolras crossed his arms defensively, “Do not speak in tongues. Tell me what you know.”

Grantaire sucked in a deep breathe, “Uh. It’s 2018. I’m pretty sure France hasn’t had a monarchy in a while.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone, “Do you even know what a cell phone is?”

He was met with stony silence.

Grantaire put his phone down on his desk and ran his hands through his hair in a panic. “Right. Okay. Time traveling angelic revolutionary. I’m definitely going crazy.”

Enjolras shrugged, “I would prefer to go back. But since you didn’t summon me and I certainly didn’t try to come here, it seems I will be stuck here for a while.” His tone was nonchalant but his posture was crumpled in on himself.

Enjolras turned his disappointed gaze on Grantaire and sighed, “I assume much time has passed. I would have hoped for society to have advanced much farther than this. Did you know that there are people who sleep in your alley right next door?”

Grantaire tried not to feel like the dirt on the sole of Enjolras’s angelic foot. “Yeah. Tony and Ronda are good folk and I try to help when I can but,” he shrugged and tried not to think about his empty fridge and dusty cupboards. “Things are obviously better now than whenever you come from but, well. People don’t get better. They just find better ways of hiding how shitty they are.”

Enjolras stared down at Grantaire, silent and contemplative. “You are wrong.”

Grantaire shrugged, noncommittal. He rolled the pencil between his hands, feeling the ridges press into his palms. “You’re an angel. You probably have to see the good in everyone, it’s probably like in your DNA or something.” He looked up, smiling wryly, thinking, Except for me of course.

“Again. You are wrong,”Enjolras said. He stood, grimacing at the bruises on his feet before standing straight, head held high and shoulders thrown back in the muscle memory of wings.

Enjolras headed for the door and Grantaire looked down at his scarred, callused hands in disappointment.

“Come.” The voice rang like the golden bells of heaven.

His gaze jerked up and he saw Enjolras standing in the doorway, beckoning. Grantaire was half out of his chair before he even realized what he was doing.

“Where are we going?” he asked cautiously.

Enjolras grinned at him, sharp and brilliant, “To start a revolution.” And he walked out the door.

Grantaire stared around his apartment. The walls, floors, tables, and chairs were filled with sketches of righteous wings and glowing halos and eyes as sharp as a lance. He looked at the dark shadows of charcoal on his hands and he pushed his pencil into his pocket as he turned to walk out the door, following after his angel.


End file.
